Assurred Response

Chapter 11

When Hartwell Prost walked into the Situation Room, there was an underlying feeling of tension in the air. Not panic, but a growing sense of uneasiness at this early hour of the morning. To a person, they were asking themselves the same question: What next?

Flanking the stone-faced president were Pete Adair, secretary of defense; Les Chalmers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; Jim Ebersole, FBI director; George Anderson, cabinet-level director of homeland security; Army General Jeremiah Jamison, commander, Homeland Security; the director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA); and a representative of the National Domestic Preparedness Office.

"Have a seat," the president said quietly. "Gentlemen, before we begin, I should tell you that these civilian planes — business jets — that targeted our nuclear power plants were either stolen or purchased by the terrorists, we dont know which. Either way, this brings another dimension, another unknown into the equation, and more uncertainty for all Americans."

Macklin paused as his emotions began to seep to the surface. "We 11 address this new threat in detail later. At the moment, George is going to bring us up to date on the damage." He loosened his tie and looked Anderson in the eye. "George, how many casualties so far?"

"At least twenty-one so far at the Indian Point plant, and it will be much higher before the day is over." Anderson was not his usual confident, effusive self. "It s going to take some time to sift through the rubble."

"What about the other plants?"

"We dont have any firm numbers from the other sites yet, but it's my understanding from our sources in the Tampa-St. Pete area that we can expect heavy casualties at the Crystal River location." Nervous and uneasy Anderson took a sip of water. "The airplane that crashed into the Indian Point plant hit the turbine building and some adjacent structures. Its a real mess." He hesitated and then removed his glasses. "The explosion destroyed the equipment that is necessary to bring the plant to a safe and stable shutdown."

The room was quiet until Prost spoke. "Are you saying we have a Chernobyl-type situation, a meltdown in progress?"

Avoiding Prost's prying eyes, Anderson stared at his briefing notes for a long moment. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Oh, Jesus," Pete Adair said, under his breath. He cast a look at the director of homeland security "How much radiation is leaking?"

Anderson glanced at the latest numbers from the scientists who studied the disaster at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in the Ukraine. "The best estimate is roughly seven to ten percent into the atmosphere. That's just an educated guess from the resident experts at the International Atomic Energy Agency."

"Translate," Macklin demanded.

"Well, sir, there will be significant contamination at the site and in the area east of the plant. Beyond that, the radiation should be carried over the Atlantic by the prevailing winds."

The president's shoulders sagged in relief. I hope he's right. "What's the situation in New York City?"

"Not good, sir. The shelters were filled to capacity within thirty minutes of the attack; others are using the subway stations as shelters."

Macklin removed his glasses and looked at his FEMA director. "What are we doing to help those people?"

"Sir, the National Guard and the Red Cross are gearing up. They're going to set up medical facilities and food stations throughout the city. But their resources are going to need replenishing in the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours."

"Maybe we don't have to put so many people through this." The president turned his attention to George Anderson. "If the radiation is confined to the east side of Indian Point, let's get the word out to the people, encourage them to return to their homes."

"That's what we're getting ready to do: television, radio, and the emergency broadcast system." Anderson hesitated a moment. "Sir, there's so much conflicting information out there. It would help a lot if you would address the American people."

"I fully intend to do that as soon as we get organized." Macklin's neck muscles were beginning to telegraph his intensity "What kind of visual aids do you have: mandatory evacuation areas and areas to be avoided, things like that?"

"They're being prepared — we should have them soon."

The president made eye contact with Anderson. "Okay, George, stay on top of this, and let me know if you need anything — anything."

"Understood, sir."

Macklin rose from his chair, thanked Anderson and the others for arriving on such short notice, and walked them to the exit. The president asked Prost, Adair, and Chalmers to keep their seats.

Macklin returned and slumped into his chair. "Gentlemen," he said in a weary voice, "I want your input on Saeed Shayhidi; keep it short and to the point. Hartwell?"

"Mr. President, before I address the Shayhidi issue, I have to insist that you board the airborne operations center immediately. Even with the air defenses available here, there is no guarantee we could stop a suicide bomber from hitting the White House."

"Hartwell," the president interrupted. "I understa—"

"Sir, please allow me to finish. I'm amazed they didn't hit this place first. Now they've acquired other jets to attack us at will, you could be targeted at any—"

Macklin held his hands up in submission. "I've already had the lecture from Pete and Les. My bags are being packed and the first lady is en route to a secure shelter."

"Good. I'm relieved. The vice president and his staff are on their way from Chicago to Cheyenne Mountain and should be landing in Colorado Springs within the hour."

Prost rubbed his chin. "About Shayhidi: it's time to play hardball with these people, and I mean to put Shayhidi and his cronies out of business — permanently."

The president looked up. "Les and Pete have the same opinion, no argument from me, but what I need is a specific target. Any ideas?"

"Hartwell," Pete Adair said as he slid Prost a piece of paper. "Les and I have outlined some suggestions for striking Shayhidi. We think they'll have a devastating impact on his operation. We'd like you to review them, give us your opinion, or add anything you think will help."

Prost accepted the paper.

"The president has already seen the list," Adair continued. "We have to act now, can't afford to keep reacting to attacks."

"I couldn't agree more," Prost said, as he studied the recommendations. "The sooner we strike Shayhidi, the better."

The president frowned when he thought about missing the funerals of Brett Shannon and his colleagues. "Gentlemen, I want to expedite your plans for Shayhidi." Macklin paused to consider his priorities. "In regard to homeland security, I want air cover — helicopter gunships or fighter aircraft — for our nuclear power plants until this crisis is over. All of them, including the damaged ones."

Prost politely interrupted. "Sir, we need the same type of protection, if not more, for the Pantex plant in Amarillo. The materials from our dismantled nuclear warheads are stored on-site."

"Done."

Hartwell held up a hand. "One other consideration: the facilities at Arco, Idaho, where we reprocess nuclear fuel taken from ships and submarines that are being deactivated and disposed of."

"Make those priorities," Macklin said firmly. "Be sure we have troops with shoulder-fired SAMS at all the locations, twenty-four seven, until further notice."

"That's a lot of plants to protect," Prost reminded him. "It's going to take a while to implement this."

Macklin scribbled a note. "Whatever it takes is what we're going to do. Have the FAA issue a new emergency notice to airmen making every U. S. nuclear power plant a Prohibited Area until further notice. Fifteen-statute-mile radius up to infinity."

"Yes, sir."

Macklin balled his fist and gendy tapped the palm of his other hand. "I want to get the airlines and general aviation back into the air as quickly as possible, but we're going to have to implement some restrictions."

Prost didn't look up. "Two of my people are working with the FAA. I'll get back to you later today with their recommendations."

"Excellent," the president said, and closed his eyes for a few seconds. "And, while Im thinking about it, work out a plan, whatever you want to do, to cover our other power-generating facilities."

"Yes, sir." Prost paused a moment. "I strongly recommend that the FAA NOTAM include the fact that armed helicopter gunships and surface-to-air missiles are protecting those restricted areas."

"Sounds good. Send the message." Macklin felt an inner calm come over him, a sense of morality and duty. "We have the weapons and we have the manpower. We 11 use active-duty military personnel and the reserves."

"Fve already been working on it," Prost said, looking at the list he compiled during the helicopter flight from his estate.

"Ahead of the game, as always," the president said robustly. "I intend selectively to make life an absolute living hell for Shayhidi and his lieutenants, if we can find them."

"We need to take Shayhidi out," Adair said in an even voice. "Send a message throughout the Middle East and the entire world."

An aide quietly interrupted the discussion. It was time for President Macklin to fly to Andrews AFB and board the E-4B National Airborne Operations Center known as Night Watch.

At the behest of his national security adviser, the president had recently updated the Enduring Constitutional Government measures that dealt with the succession of political authority in the event of his death or incapacitation.

Successors to the president are tracked at all times to ensure each is always in a different place. During the State of the Union address, for example, at least one cabinet member is kept in a secret location in the event of a disaster on Capitol Hill.

If he died, Macklin had delegated individuals with authorization to launch nuclear weapons. The identities of those people, civilian and military, were being kept classified to prevent them from being targeted. In addition, senior commanders at the NORAD complex had been given nuclear-weapons-release authority.

Macklin turned to his close friend. "Les, Im going to shuffle things around a bit. I want you and Pete with me, the other joint chiefs inside Cheyenne Mountain with the vice president."

"Yes, sir."

"Hartwell, Fd like you to accompany us."

"Im packed and ready"

The president rose from his chair and turned to leave. He spoke over his shoulder to his aides. "I'm going to take a shower. I'll meet you at Marine One in twenty minutes and we'll go over the suggestions for targeting Shayhidi.'

"What about addressing the nation?" Prost asked.

Macklin stopped and turned around. "Set it up for Andrews, before we take off."

"Yes, sir."

Located twenty-eight statute miles southwest of the heart of Washington, D. C., Manassas Regional Airport was a busy general-aviation destination for people with business inside the Beltway Shortly before 7:30 A. M., a pristine Gulfstream G-IV landed to pre-position for an 8:30 A. M. charter flight to San Diego, California. The trip had been arranged by an engineering consulting firm based in Chula Vista, California.

The cocaptains, Bob Carpenter and Nick Jablonski, refueled the flagship of their growing charter operation. A fast, roomy, and comfortable jet, the plane was stocked with a wide variety of quality snacks and refreshments. Current magazines and newspapers were aboard, along with fresh coffee, assorted juices, breakfast meals, and a luncheon entree. The only thing missing was their company flight attendant, who had called in sick at the last moment.

A few minutes before 8:30 A. M., a limousine approached the ramp near the spotless G-IV. A clean-cut young Filipino man in a well-tailored dark-blue suit emerged from the Lincoln with a wide smile and firmly shook hands with the pilots. His three associates remained inside the limousine.

"Are we set?" Emilio Zamora asked in a friendly voice. His English and diction were impeccable, as would be expected from the son of an English-born mother who was a professor of history at the prestigious University of Cambridge. Zamora's father, Benigno, met his mother when he was a visiting professor at Cambridge for three years.

Jablonski maintained his easy smile. "Well, we're set to go, but the FAA has instituted a ground stop, like they did on nine-eleven. They've grounded all flights until further notice."

Zamoras disappointment was visible, but he showed no irritation. "Do you know why or how long this will last?"

Carpenter shrugged. "We dont know how long the delay will be, but it has something to do with a couple of planes that crashed. We just heard about it a few minutes ago."

The agreeable smile remained on Zamoras face. "I hope the problem can be resolved soon. We have an important meeting today."

"We 11 hope for the best," Carpenter said.

The unexpected development jeopardized Zamoras plan, but he could deal with the sudden change. That's why he was the senior leader of the special-action cell.

Zamora studied the impressive Gulfstream for a moment. "Well, if we have to wait, do you mind if we take a look at the airplane?"

"No, not at all," Jablonski said, with open enthusiasm. "Come on aboard. We'll give you the grand tour."

"Okay, let me get my business partners."

"Sure."

Carpenter entered the roomy cockpit while Jablonski waited at the bottom of the air-stair door. After the FAA-mandated ground stop and the news of mysterious crashes, both pilots were having reservations about taking this trip. Neither showed any outward signs of concern, but the feeling was rooted in the backs of their minds. They exchanged glances while keeping their smiles as natural as possible.

Emilio Zamora proudly led his three smiling associates to the G-IV, greeted Nick Jablonski, and climbed the stairs. Zamoras cleanshaven colleagues were as well dressed as their leader, all in fashionable business suits and shined shoes. Like Zamora, two of the men were Filipino. The third man, Rajiv Mukherjee, was born and raised in Calcutta, India. While everyone gathered around the cockpit, Carpenter explained the workings of the different items in his "office."

"Would anyone care for coffee?" Jablonski asked, from the front of the passenger cabin. "It's fresh and hot."

"That sounds good," Zamora said, as he shoved a handgun with a silencer deep into Carpenter's side and fired twice. In one quick motion, the other three terrorists jumped out of the way and Zamora turned and fired three rounds into Jablonski. The pilot stumbled backward and then dropped to his knees before Zamora shot him again, this time in the head.

Emilio Zamora stepped aside to allow the other men to carry the bodies of the dead pilots to the back of the passenger cabin. While Zamora and two of his fellow murderers returned to the limousine, Rajiv Mukheijee remained inside the airplane.

After the limousine drove away, Mukheijee casually walked down the air-stair door, quickly removed the chocks, and returned to the blood-soaked cabin. He closed the air-stair door and removed his coat and tie.

Having compiled the best overall grades of all the foreign students attending U. S.-based flight schools, Mukheijee had been chosen for the ultimate special operation. His dedication to Islamic extremism and his ability to speak English well were factored into the decision to allow him to be the "honored" pilot.

With eighteen hours of training time in the Gulfstream G-IV simulator and seven hours of intense instruction in the actual airplane, Mukheijee was supremely confident of his ability to accomplish his important mission. After setding into the left seat, Mukheijee started the engines and called Ground Control to request a high-speed taxi test to check a nose-wheel shimmy. Reluctant at first, the supervisor/ground controller finally gave him permission to taxi but expressly cautioned him about the recently invoked FAA ground stop.

Mukheijee calmly acknowledged the instructions and carefully taxied to Runway 34-right. With permission from the control tower, Mukheijee aligned the big Gulfstream with the runway centerline, checked to make sure the transponders were turned off, and smoothly moved the throttles forward. The powerful G-IV rapidly accelerated. When it was still gaining speed two-thirds of the way down the 5,700-foot runway, the tower controller almost had a fit.

"Gulfstream Three Three Kilo Tango, abort! Abort your takeoff! Abort — abort — abort!" He knew there was no way the airplane could stop in the remaining distance, but he had to try to prevent the takeoff. "Three Three Kilo Tango, you are in violation of an FAA NOTAM immediately grounding all civil flights in this country."

The stunned controller watched the corporate jet lift off and accelerate close to the ground. There goes my career.

After the G-IV was airborne, Mukherjee kept trimming the nose down while he raised the landing gear and flaps. Barely 120 feet in the air, he banked the airplane steeply to the right and set his course straight for the White House, home of the infidel leader of the great superpower.

Mukherjee had memorized the heading, distance, and time to his target. He would be there in less than five minutes — four minutes and some odd seconds to eternal glory. His name would be forever treated with reverence in his adopted homeland of Iran, perhaps as well known as that of his hero, Osama bin Laden.

All hell broke loose when the controller at Manassas made contact with the FAA command centcr. Shocked by the unthinkable flaunting of the rules, the tower controller explained that the low-flying jet was on a straight course to Washington, D. C. Heads would roll all the way up the chain of command at the "Tombstone Agency."

The FAA instantly contacted NORAD headquarters near Colorado Springs. The vice commander of CMOC immediately scrambled more fighters on the East Coast. At the same time, a Boeing E-3 AWACS surveillance and control aircraft flying high above the Chesapeake Bay located the ground-hugging jet on its radar.

Two Air Force F-16s patrolling southeast of the University of Maryland were given a snap vector to intercept the intruder. Both fighters were armed with two AIM-9 Sidewinder infrared-homing air-to-air missiles, four AIM-120 AMRAAM active terminal radar missiles, and one multibarrel cannon with a full load of 20mm high-explosive ammunition.

Turning southwest, the fighter pilots from Langley AFB tapped their burners and quickly went through Mach 1, sending powerful sonic booms reverberating across D. C. and the surrounding terrain. The shocking noise sent many people running for cover.

As the Gulfstream continued to accelerate, Rajiv Mukheijee climbed another 100 feet to keep from scaring himself. He had never flown this low at such a fast speed. One sneeze or hiccup and the plane could hit the ground. Seconds later, Mukheijee eased the power back when the G-IV reached 405 knots. Trees, homes, golf courses, schools, and roads were flashing past in a frightening blur.

Air Force Major Alan Kenner and Captain Stacy DAngelo were frantically searching for the low-flying bogey With all the ground clutter, it was much more difficult to spot the low-flying aircraft.

"Sterno," the AWACS crew member excitedly radioed, "I have a primary target — repeat primary target — at your eleven o'clock — nine miles — on the deck, four-hundred-plus knots."

"Were cookin and lookin," Kenner replied in a tight voice. "Stacy, let s take it down, stand by to arm em up."

"Roger," she said tersely, as they began a steep descent. We only have a few seconds, make it good.

Mukheijee was gripping the control yoke with both hands when he blasted low over the highway interchange of Beltway 495 and Little River Turnpike.

Many cars and trucks pulled off the road after the jet thundered overhead, barely above the trees. Some of the motorists, fearful of another massive terrorist attack, began praying for divine intervention while they used their cell phones to call family members.

Reacting on visceral instinct, D'Angelo keyed her radio. "Sterno, you might want to start a left turn to intercept. Ill continue on for a couple of seconds."

"Concur — hang in." He began his turn and lowered the nose.

"Sterno," the AWACS air defense systems operator radioed, "bend it around hard, nine o'clock in the weeds!"

"Sterno is coming around," Kenner said with a low groan, as he pulled more Gs. "Say posit — target."

"Ten — low!"

"Copy—

Booming across the northern finger of Lake Barcroft and then over Jeb Stuart High School, the howling Gulfstream was setting off scores of car alarms. To make matters worse, the sonic booms from the screeching F-16s were shattering dozens of windows. The deafening noise added one more ingredient to the turmoil and fear that was gripping the city.

When the hijacked jet streaked over Arlington Boulevard, Major Kenner caught a glimpse of the ground-hugging G-IV. "Sterno has a tally, have the Gulfstream in sight." He quickly reduced power and pulled heavy Gs to intercept the intruding aircraft.

"Sterno, you have permission to fire — bag him!" an excited voice said from the AWACS.

"Arm em up, Stacy," Kenner said crisply.

"Copy," DAngelo replied, already pulling 7 Gs to align her fighter in trail of her flight leader. She was closing on Kenner at the speed of heat and eased the throttle back.

Sterno keyed his radio. "He's really in the weeds."

Sucking oxygen, Captain DAngelo spotted the G-IV. "I have both of you in sight — get him."

"Have to."

DAngelo rechecked her master arm switch and eased the throttle forward.

Freshly showered and shaved, Cord Macklin was tying his tie in the presidential living quarters when an aide and three Secret Service agents barged through the main entrance.

"This way, Mr. President!" the senior agent said, in the command voice of a marine corps drill instructor. "We have an imminent threat. Follow us now!"

"Lead the way," the startled president said, as he was pushed through the main door. Without asking a single question, Macklin ran between the men as they headed for the nearest shelter. He knew something big was about to happen and it was probably going to involve the White House. He was thankful the first lady was in a safe, secure place.

The Gulfstream was rapidly approaching Arlington National Cemetery when Major Kenner fired the first Sidewinder missile. It wavered a moment and then flew straight into the rear of the G-IVs left engine. The explosion almost ripped the engine from the side of the fuselage.

Rajiv Mukherjee felt the impact and panicked when the cockpit lit up with warning lights. The left engine was destroyed, but the airplane was still flying and controllable. Need a few more seconds. He gripped the yoke with all his strength and stared straight at the White House.

Kenner fired the second AIM-9 missile when the smoking G-IV reached the western perimeter of the historic national cemetery. He saw the missile undulate and then explode in the exhaust of the right engine. The concussive force of the detonation severely damaged the T-tail of the airplane.

Blocking everything from his mind, Mukherjee ignored the cockpit warnings and glanced at the Potomac River. I'm going to make it, have to make it, won't fail.

Switching to guns, Kenner had a malfunction that prevented him from firing the cannon. "Stacy, take him out!" he said as he pulled his F-16 straight into a vertical climb and continued pulling until he was on his back going the opposite direction from DAngelo.

Without hesitation, she fired a Sidewinder missile that hit the Gulfstream in the heavily damaged right engine. The burning Rolls-Royce turbofan departed the G-IV, taking the tail of the airplane with it.

DAngelo fired another 'winder at the same instant the corporate jet pitched down. She flinched when a shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile slashed past her fighter. Time to exit She simultaneously stroked the burner and reefed the F-16 into a punishing vertical climb. Hold your fire, guys — I'm on your side.

Pulling back on the useless yoke with the strength of a man who knew he was going to meet Allah, Rajiv Mukheijee glimpsed the White House a split second before the Gulfstream slammed into the intersection of E and 17th Street. The deafening explosion blew out windows and rattled china in the executive mansion.

The Secret Service agents pulled the president down in a White House corridor and covered him with their bodies. Seconds later, they yanked him to his feet and continued running for safety.

The bulk of the G-IV fuselage crashed into the southwest gate of the White House grounds, and then careened across the South Lawn, hitting Marine One a glancing blow before smashing into the visitor entrance and the security fence. The crushed, burned aircraft and the remains of Rajiv Mukheijee and the two Gulfstream pilots came to rest on East Executive Avenue.

The marine flight crew of the VIP helicopter survived the collision with only minor injuries, but the Sikorsky VH-3D was heavily damaged. The exterior of the White House and the lawn sustained extensive damage. Flaming jet fuel sprayed the mansion, and flying chunks of the left engine and the fuselage carved deep furrows in the manicured lawn.

In a matter of seconds, the president was hustled off to Andrews AFB in a caravan of Secret Service vehicles. Pete Adair, General Chalmers, and Hartwell Prost followed a few minutes later in a separate convoy crammed with agents. Steely-eyed veterans, the Secret Service troops were spring-loaded to kill anyone who tried to interfere with their mission.